


This is a Photograph of Me

by ArtisticRainey



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Family Relationships - Freeform, Gen, Tracy Sister with a Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtisticRainey/pseuds/ArtisticRainey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my take on a Tracy sister fic, but never fear! There are *no original characters nor unestablished character deaths to be found*. Promise! The title is inspired by the Margaret Atwood poem of the same name. It's probably not what it's is about but this is what I thought of. Three of the Tracy brothers rediscover a photo album.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is a Photograph of Me

It started when Gordon and Alan went to get the Christmas decorations and subsequently disappeared. I was ten chapters through my novel before I looked at my watch and realised they had been gone for over an hour.

 

“Gords? Al?” I called.

 

Silence. I set my book down. Silence and the terrible twosome were not a good mix. It was usually an indication that something unusual, unexpected or downright silly was about to happen. With trepidation, I went in search of them.

 

The decorations were in storage on the lower floor. I took the stairs two at a time and wrinkled my nose as the smell of burning hit me. Grandma had been massacring gingerbread men all morning and it wasn’t until Virgil had offered to take her to the mainland for a shopping trip that the poor things had been saved from a baked goods genocide.

 

Scott had long since retreated down to Thunderbird One’s silo with M.A.X. - though I had no idea what new tweak or upgrade he was working on now. This was likely a strategy with two purposes: one, to escape the trauma of their grandmother’s baking, and two, to free himself from the nightmare that was decorating the villa for Christmas.

 

Why a nightmare? I hear you ask. Isn’t the task of decorating the tree, hanging up strings of tinsel and popcorn in every perceivable place and setting up a diorama of light-up plastic reindeer something all families look forward to? Well, if you had spent years having tinsel crammed down your pants every Christmas, I imagine you wouldn’t be too keen on it either.

 

Thus, as I opened the door to the storeroom where the decorations were kept along with boxes full of the past, I wasn’t sure what I would be faced with.

 

I certainly didn’t expect what I saw.

 

My brothers were not surrounded by Christmas decorations. Instead, they were on the floor, swimming in a sea of photographs.

 

“Hey, bro,” Gordon said, peeking over the top of a battered leather binder.

 

“We got a bit…distracted,” Alan added, looking like he’d been caught with a spoon in the jam jar.

 

I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms.

 

“I can see that,” I said. “I was worried. I thought you two might have been kidnapped by a herd of plastic reindeer and held hostage for a ransom of carrots.”

 

Gordon grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Not this time, anyway. Al pulled out a box full of photos and I guess we just got lost. There are some real gems in here. Look.”

 

I bent down to take the offered snapshot. My laughter could only be described as explosive.

 

“Oh my god! I forgot about Virgil’s mullet!”

 

“Why Mom ever did that to him, I will never understand,” Alan said. “Here, check this one out.”

 

I took it and shook my head.

 

“You loved that thing,” I said.

 

It was a picture of a chubby-cheeked Alan grinning on Scott’s knee, grasping a bedraggled stuffed dog.

 

“Patch?” I asked.

 

Alan scowled.

 

“Spot,” he corrected. “Get it right.”

 

I laughed again and handed the photo back.

 

“Spot, then, is probably in another of these boxes.”

 

With undue care, Alan lifted something that had been hiding behind him. It was the threadbare pup. My brother’s face was so deadly serious as he hugged it that I guffawed for the third time in minutes.

 

“You guys crack me up,” I said.

 

Gordon tossed aside the leather folder and reached for another box. He opened it and then, without warning, became very still. He looked from the box to Alan, then to me. My stomach clenched.

 

“Gords?” I asked.

 

He said nothing. Instead, he pulled out a large photograph album with a faded pink cover. I gulped and slid down to the floor.

 

“It’s Sally’s,” Gordon said.

 

I nodded. Alan scooted over so I could get closer. He was still clutching Spot.

 

“Should I open it?” Gordon asked.

 

“I haven’t seen that thing in years,” I said, reaching out to touch the cover but stopping halfway. “I didn’t realise Dad kept it. I guess…” I gulped again and wished there was some whiskey to hand to steady my nerves. “I guess he didn’t want to lose all his memories of his little girl.”

 

Gordon waited, his amber eyes fixed on me. It truly had been years since I had seen any of Sally’s belongings. I had assumed that nothing of hers came to this island with us. Her life ended in Kansas, on Grandpa Grant’s farm not long after we lost Mom and Grandpa himself in that godforsaken avalanche. She had known that she couldn’t go on any longer.

 

“We can put it back in the box, bro,” Alan said. “We don’t have to look at it.”

 

I shifted and pulled my legs underneath me.

 

“No. I think… I think it’s probably time.”

 

And it was. Time to face things. Time to be brave.

 

Time to accept.

 

As if handling an ancient manuscript, Gordon prised open the front cover. The plastic backed pages crackled as he prised them open. As soon as he laid eyes on the first picture, he couldn’t help himself from grinning. There she was, Sally Kristen Tracy, the one and only Tracy sister. A sister who was no more.

 

I leaned in closer and turned the photo album towards me. She was all chubby cheeks and big round eyes. I traced my finger over her pale face.

 

“So cute,” Alan said.

 

“All babies are cute,” I replied, though my tone was soft.

 

“I don’t know about that,” Gordon said, his eyes glinting. “I’ve seen the pictures of Alan. Weren’t you green and scaly when you came out?”

 

Gordon was rewarded with a stuffed dog to the head.

 

“Let’s see the next page,” Alan said flatly.

 

And so we sat, three brothers, watching as years passed and our family grew. There were firsts: first steps, first haircut, first day at school. There were pigtails and pink dresses and nail painting with Mom. There was a picture with Scott holding Sally on his shoulders as they worked together to pick crab apples, piling them in a wicker basket. There was another with Sally and Virgil sitting side by side at the piano in the farmhouse, identical grins beaming from their faces as they pretended to play.

 

Then there was a snapshot from behind that took away all smiled. The sun was setting, the sky hazy with an orange wash, and silhouetted against it was Sally, holding hands with Gordon and Alan, one on each side.

 

“I remember that,” Alan said. His tone was flat again. “It was the end of summer. We had gone out for school supplies that day.”

 

“It was the first summer after Mom and Grandpa,” Gordon said.

 

He didn’t say after Mom and Grandpa died. We avoided that term. We didn’t even use euphemisms like passed on or went to a better place. We never had. There was something almost disrespectful about cheapening their deaths that way.

 

That summer had been the worst. With no school to distract us, there had been nowhere to hide.

 

“Shall we go on?” Gordon asked.

 

I paused for a moment. Then I nodded.

 

“Yes.”

 

Slowly, he turned the page.

 

Three was only one more photo in the album. The rest of the pages were empty. It was a full-length photo of teenage Sally, all gangling arms and pale skin. She wouldn’t look at the camera anymore. She was wearing a baseball cap with her long hair tucked underneath it, a t-shirt that had belonged to Scott, long cargo shorts and a pair of battered sneakers.

 

I remembered that outfit. The hem of the t-shirt had fallen on the left side and there was a bleach stain on the back pocket of the shorts. Those shoes had lasted forever.

 

I reached out and took the album from Gordon and laid it on my lap. I studied her face; she looked so much older than she really was. There was a heaviness, a sense of raw emotion etched into her features. That was why she hadn’t looked into the camera. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see into her soul. She had been afraid of what they might say if they saw the truth.

 

 

 

 

***

 

Dad hadn’t taken long to figure out what was really going on. I will never forget the day he grabbed the bull by the horns, the time he decided to do the bravest thing I have ever seen.

 

“Sal, please.”

 

He had been knocking on the door for nearly half an hour. Nothing was going to deter him. There had been no hint of anger in his voice, no taint of irritation.

 

“I know I said I would never do this but I think this situation warrants a break in the rules,” he had said. “I’m coming in whether you like it or not. We need to talk.”

 

The handle had taken an age to turn and when the door was eased open, Sally turned towards the wall.

 

I turned towards the wall.

 

“Sal, please. I just want to talk to you. I’m your dad. You can tell me anything. I’m worried about you.”

 

The floorboards creaked under his feet and my shoulders shook. Months of wrestling with myself, with the never ending worry about what Dad would say, what Grandma would say, what my brothers would say. The chewing, gnawing sense that I was about to create another trauma for our wounded family. I was about to take untangle yet another thread of our tapestry, take away yet another life. And the aching realisation that, after experiencing the death of my mother and grandfather, that I could not go on living a lie. Life was too fragile, too fleeting.

 

I’m wouldn’t even turn around when Dad laid his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

 

“Sally.”

 

I did swing around at that.

 

“Don’t call me Sally!” I snarled. “I don’t want to be called that. I hate it. It’s not me.”

 

“Honey -”

 

“Don’t call me that either! You don’t call Scott that. You don’t call Virgil or Gordon or Alan that.”

 

My voice was getting higher and higher with frustration and it brought me all the more shame. Dad grasped my skinny forearms and held me in place, bringing my emotions back to earth.

 

“Then pick a new name,” he said. “Whatever you want. Whatever you need.” The earnestness in his eyes brought tears to my own. “Sal-” He let out a frustrated grunt. “You are my child. You will always be my child, no matter who you are. Whether you’re Sally or Stewart or Stephen. I just want you to be happy.”

 

I remember the feeling of absolute stillness that came over me in that moment. I had never mentioned anything about my feelings, the crawling discomfort of living in a body that didn’t fit, the constant pressure of a shadow that was the wrong shape and that I couldn’t run from.

 

“How did you know?” I whispered. The words caught in my throat.

 

Dad squeezed my arms again. There were tears glinting in his eyes.

 

“You’re my child,” he said. “I just knew.”

 

***

 

I traced my fingertips over the photograph once again. Sally had died that day and John had been born. I had never looked back. Gently, I closed the album and placed my hands on its pastel cover. I looked at my brothers.

 

“Do you miss her?” I asked.

 

Gordon and Alan shot each other a look and I shook my head.

 

“It’s not a trick question. I won’t be upset.”

 

“I guess, sometimes,” Alan said. “I was pretty young when you started to transition but I do remember Sally. She was cool. But then, so is John.”

 

“She isn’t really gone, anyway,” Gordon said.

 

The terrible twosome shared another look and I knew I was in for it. After a split second, I found myself engulfed in a double-team bear hug. It felt like I would come apart at the seams.

 

“Guys. Can’t breathe.”

 

Eventually they relented. I shook my head and cast Spot a woeful look.

 

“Now I know how he feels.”

 

Alan chuckled and lifted his childhood toy. Gordon rose, patted my shoulder, and started perusing the many shelves that lined the storeroom.

 

“I guess we should probably do what we came here for in the first place. Is that a tree I see?”

 

Alan went to help him extricate the fake fir from the shelf. I ran my hands over the photo album again. I traced the gilded words with my fingertip. Baby Girl.

 

Not anymore, I thought as I placed it back in the box. Not anymore.

 

***

 

**This is a Photograph of Me**

_By Margaret Atwood_

 

It was taken some time ago.

At first it seems to be

a smeared

print: blurred lines and grey flecks

blended with the paper;

 

then, as you scan it

you see in the left-hand corner

a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree

(balsam or spruce) emerging

and, to the right, halfway up

what ought to be a gentle

slope, a small frame house.

 

In the background there is a lake,

and beyond that, some low hills.

 

(The photograph was taken

the day after I drowned.

 

I am in the lake, in the center

of the picture, just under the surface.

 

It is difficult to say where

precisely, or to say

how large or small I am:

the effect of water

on light is a distortion

 

but if you look long enough,

eventually

you will be able to see me.)


End file.
